F. Ahmadi
This year, when I saw the photos of the top scorers of the national university entrance exam (Kankor) flooding social media — boys wearing gold medals, wide smiles, families proud and celebrating — I just stared.
Not because I was jealous — never — but because it reminded me: I never even had the chance to be on that list.
No one ever called my name.
No one ever waited for me.
Because I’m a girl.
When I graduated from high school, I was only fifteen. My heart was full of hope, like someone invited to a great race. I dreamed of taking the Kankor, of going to university, of studying computer science. Simple dreams — but big enough to keep me awake at night.
But even that first year, I couldn’t register.
We couldn’t afford it. No money for prep courses, not even for practice books.
I told myself: Next year, maybe.
But then the Taliban came… and it was all over.
They locked the university doors, and with them, they locked up all of our dreams.
My classmates — the boys who sat beside me in school — are now either graduating or on their way there. But me?
I sit in the corner of the house, behind a window, with no degree, no path forward, no hope.
As if I was never here.
Sometimes I think it’s my fault — maybe I should have fought harder. But then I remind myself: to fight, you must first be allowed to breathe.
Every year when the Kankor results are announced, the tears come back. My phone fills with names: Accepted in Medicine, Accepted in Law, Accepted in Engineering…
And me? Accepted in nothing.
This is the third year girls are not even allowed to register.
The world’s big organizations keep releasing statements — but statements don’t open the doors of our homes.
We did not fail.
We were never given the chance.
I look at the world and I ask:
Will our voices only be heard in press releases?
Is justice just a word buried in reports?
I still don’t know.
All I know is that I had a dream…
But they took it away before I could even begin.
